Gemotions

The piano notes, tinkling like chipped ice, clawed at Elias’s gut. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white. It was his song, “Crimson Skies,” a ballad he’d poured his soul into. Now, some vapid pop star, a girl with too much lip filler and a voice like a dying seagull, was butchering it on the radio.

He switched the station, then switched back. He couldn't help himself. A vein in his temple throbbed. He imagined himself, his hands, around the throat of the disc jockey who dared to play this abomination.

He slammed the car into park. The engine sputtered in protest. He had to get out, he thought, or he was going to explode. He slammed the door and kicked the tire.